


The Vera Thing

by JoansGlove



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Matricide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25223611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: I was re-watching S1 and I got to wondering what might have happened if Vera hadn't dropped the cushion in ep6.
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 37





	1. Something Awful

**Author's Note:**

> This has been written based on series 1 Vera's characterisation with just a smidgeon of inspiration from S2
> 
> Thanks to Duchess for her assistance x

In the dimness of the bedroom the mother looked up at the daughter from her pillows and fear gleamed in the old woman’s eyes as they flickered first to the cushion clutched tightly in both hands, and then to the grim face floating above them. Without a word the good daughter leant over her mother and lowered the cushion. She had been surprisingly energetic for a woman who claimed to be so frail, but the bedclothes acted as a ready-made winding sheet, trapping her arms to her side as she tried to escape her fate, and in a matter of minutes it was over.

Sickly exhilaration made Vera tremble as she stripped the cushion from its cover and stuffed it inside a new one, fluffing it up and tossing it at her mother’s lifeless feet before heading to the kitchen to finish the last of wine as she waited for her taxi to arrive.

“Hey, Vera, drink up!” Linda slapped the tray on the table and slid alongside her. It was just the two of them left, everyone else having cried off as the shots came into play. “I reckon,” said Linda, pausing to neck a shot of sticky, ruby liquor, “That we should have another round of these and then hit that pie van for a couple of floaters.”

She didn’t want that night to ever end; it turned out that she wasn’t quite as boring as she’d thought – people had looked at her differently tonight, people had spoken to her about more than just work, some of them had even shared a joke and a laugh with her! It was a world away from the stifling dullness of home and she’d happily let herself be seduced by her taste of fun. “Only one more round?” she laughed and sank a measure of something unspeakably green.

“I’ll remind you that you said that tomorrow,” grinned Linda and slapped a fifty in Vera's hand. “You want ‘em? Then you go an’ get ‘em!”

Work was disgusting. How she got through the day she’ll never know, but it was more than worth it for the camaraderie last night. Waving Linda’s car goodbye, Vera slouched up the path and squared her shoulders in readiness for her mother’s disapproval, and let herself in.

“Mum, I’m home,” she called. “Mum?” she called again as she trailed into the kitchen to see if Rita’s car keys were on the hook. They were – along with her house keys. Probably having a nap, she thought to herself and made a cup of tea to wake her with. She was grateful for those few extra minutes’ respite before the inevitable assault on her conscience began, but eventually she took a deep breath in preparation for the tirade of accusations and jibes that she knew she deserved, and pushed open the bedroom door. “Mum? I’ve made you some tea.” She batted away a couple of flies and set the cup and saucer on the bedside table. Odd, her mum was still under the covers. “Mum?” she asked again and gently shook the old woman’s shoulder, recoiling as coolness seeped into her fingertips. Steeling herself, Vera felt for a pulse and let out a strangled moan as she discovered the lack thereof.

In a daze, she’d called the paramedics who, in turn, had called the Police. They’d been really nice to her as she recounted her movements over the last twenty-four hours and described her mum’s habits, her health and their relationship. It had started to go wrong when they read the pathologist’s preliminary report: her mother, so it said, had not died of natural causes and suicide seemed unlikely. The daughter looked at the Inspector and realisation dawned in her tired eyes. Someone had come into the house and killed her mum. Her mum was dead.

It seemed strange that she could be sick to her stomach with horror but at the same time feel completely numb. “She was fine when I checked on her before I went out,” she’d told them in a small voice. “I crashed at a mate’s, went to work and found her like this when I got home.”

Did her mother have any enemies, the Detectives had asked. She wasn’t well-liked but no, no enemies she’d replied.

Did she have friends that visited, they’d enquired. She wasn’t well liked, she’d reminded them.

How about your enemies, they’d asked. Well, she was a Corrections Officer she’d explained, so she probably did – but not to that extreme, she was sure of it.

Were _you_ her enemy, they’d asked, and Vera had been stunned. How could they ask her something like that? She loved her mother; she was all she had, why would she want to hurt her?

The police observed that she wasn’t married. They’d asked about Adam (she didn’t know who’d told them about him) – who was he, did he have access to the house, could he have motive? And to her dismay she’d been forced to admit the crushingly embarrassing truth: that she’d made him up to seem more normal. And then she’d had to explain why she felt that she wasn’t normal. It was all so humiliating and unnecessary. 

That’s when they’d arrested her and had taken her down to the Custody Suite. She’d been interviewed under caution and charged with Murder before being bundled into a brawler and taken to the courthouse to be remanded. And all through the terrible nightmare she’d protested her innocence because what else could she do? She _was_ innocent. It wasn’t her fault if there were no signs of forced entry, or that her mother had died just after she’d left the house to meet friends. Something awful had happened to Mum, and the Police thought that she’d done it.


	2. QCS

Like the rest of the prison, Isolation was built from boxes of bare red brick. A panopticon, the unseen eye watched the prisoners through panes of scuffed acrylic.

The geriatric air conditioning fought a valiant, yet losing battle with the oppressive humidity, leaving her navy vest top clinging to her narrow ribs. She wore prison uniform because those were the rules here. There were no sweats allowed, just navy trousers, skirts or shorts and a range of dark blue T-shirts, all stamped with the initials of Queensland Correctional Services – yellow for the remanded and orange for the convicted. And whilst different, the officer’s uniforms were pretty much the same as in Victoria. To go with the climate there were no jackets, just putty coloured skirts and trousers with matching ties and an awful tan shirt. Hardly an outfit to inspire respect, but she knew which one she’d prefer...

Over the last three days she’d been shoved from pillar to post and back again by the Police, the Courts, the Police again, and finally Corrections. A fearsome dread had steadily eroded her initial numbness and now, she knew, she was beginning to flirt with hysteria as the enormity of what had happened – and what was happening now – sunk in. She’d reached the stage where it didn’t really matter where she was, all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and block everything out. She’d take whatever charge they laid, whatever rules they imposed on her just as long as she could have some peace from their stares and their questions.

Both Davidson and Channing had successfully petitioned for her to be held interstate (to be honest, it was a relief – she didn’t want to be held where the staff might know her) and, as neither SA nor NSW would take her, it had been up to Queensland to find somewhere secure to store her until showtime. Stone Park Prison, located in the arse-end of Queensland, was where Corrections thought she would be safest as she awaited trial for the murder of her mother. For extra safety they stuck her in isolation for the first twenty-four hours until the Governor saw fit to interview her. But at least there in she could have a moment to breathe, because it felt as if she hadn’t been able to perform that most necessary of things since the young Police officer with lovely brown eyes had fixed the hand cuffs around her wrists and led her out of her home and into this unspeakable hallucination. 

How many first-time prisoners had she reassured that it was all going to be okay? She supposed hundreds, thousands even, but today she’d found out that she’d had absolutely no fucking idea what she was talking about. It wasn’t okay. It was never going to be okay ever again. She was accused of a crime that she hadn’t committed, could never commit; and no-one would believe her. Her reputation was in tatters, her job in jeopardy and, if discovered by the women, her life was in very real danger. And all the time that she was locked up in here the Police weren’t out there looking for the real killer…

Still smarting from the extensive cavity search, Vera perched uncomfortably on the edge of her narrow bed and her head bowed as her chest began to heave with dry, wavering sobs.


	3. Under The Microscope

The guard looked the prisoner up and down; particular interest was paid to her chest. “Bennett. The Governor wants to see you.”

The bedframe creaked as she got to her feet. “What time is it?”

“Why, have you got another appointment to get to or something?”

She bowed her head meekly. “No, Miss.”

She tried to keep up as she hurried along behind Officer McKenzie; along the tangled red brick corridors of her new home, and over the caged catwalk spanning the divide between the women’s wing and the prison proper. “What’s his name?” she asked as they stepped out of the airlock into the stuffy Admin block.

“ _Her_ name is Miss Ferguson.”

“Oh. What’s she like?”

“A damn good governor. Knows how to get things done.” McKenzie’s eyes shone as she spoke of Ferguson.

“Can I trust her?”

“Can she trust you?” came McKenzie’s swift reply. She didn’t give Vera chance to answer before she rapped on the office door and all but shoved her inside. To her right, two floor to ceiling bookcases screened off the end of the airy room and, to her left, seated regally behind a broad desk of polished honey-blonde wood sat Miss Ferguson. Vera turned and looked at her, awaiting instruction.

With a graceful sweep of her dark eyes, the Governor assessed the new prisoner and, with pleasure, she noted how the repeating yellow stamp of QCS across the dark blue of Bennett’s skirt and top ran in perfect parallel from thigh to hip and from waist to shoulder, and she nodded in approval.

Vera felt like a specimen under a microscope. The Governor’s gaze was almost physical as it worked its way up and down her body. She could have sworn that it brushed an errant curl from her forehead as warm, brown eyes stroked her hot face before finally deigning to meet hers. A monolith in beige and tan, the Governor rose from her large black chair and offered Vera a welcoming smile.

“You must be Vera Bennett,” she said fastening the bottom button of her jacket as she rounded the corner of her desk.

“And you must be the Governor. Miss Ferguson,” she replied, jacking her head back to stare into the woman’s face. Power oozed from her like an intoxicating scent. She was tall, taller than most men, and her boxy uniform skimmed her figure revealing the merest hint of the woman beneath. In her late forties, she had quick, hooded eyes that were used to giving nothing away and a sensuous mouth that Vera suspected could be cruel as a blade when she wanted it to be. Vera's eyes were drawn to wisps of silver staining the ebony gloss of Miss Ferguson's hairline; despite the humidity, not a single strand was out of place in her imposing bun and Vera wondered how she managed to wear trousers and jacket in this heat and remain so crisp – she felt distinctly crumpled by comparison.

“Indeed, won’t you sit?” she indicated the twin chrome and vinyl chairs in front of her desk and, as Vera did as she was told, poured two glasses of water from the carafe on the low cabinet in the corner.

Vera glanced around the office, looking for clues to the imposing woman. The desk was bare; no framed photograph, no plant, not even a pen caddy – just a silver writing set, business cards and four yellow pencils lined up to the right of her laptop. Apart from the usual certificates hanging on the dove grey walls and a bronze and silver globe sitting behind the Governor’s big black chair, the rest of the office was similarly bereft of adornment or embellishment – a world away from Erica’s boudoir back at Wentworth – and the corners of her mouth twitched approvingly at this woman’s style.

“I suppose it feels very unsettling for you at this time,” said Miss Ferguson, turning. “Understandably you're still adjusting to this turn of events.” Vera just looked at her. She shouldn’t be in a governor’s office as a prisoner. It was all wrong. All so very, very wrong! The Governor watched the prisoner’s large blue eyes fill with tears and rested her haunches on the edge of her desk instead of returning to her own seat. “You’ve had to cope with a fair bit of change lately, I believe. I understand that you recently lost your Governor over at Wentworth. That must have been hard for you all.”

Comforted by the Governor’s concern and gentle smile of condolence (and glad she hadn’t raked over the coals of her charge), Vera sniffed back her tears and nodded with a weak smile of thanks as her glass was placed on a coaster in front of her. “Yes, it was. Her husband still works at Wentworth, I don’t know how he found the strength to come back so soon,” she said.

“She was married to another officer?”

“Mm, Will Jackson.”

Miss Ferguson's eyes widened for a fraction of a second and her broad nostrils flared. “I recognise the name,” she said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “Remind me – small man, Scottish…?”

“Oh no, definitely not. Will’s a big guy, Maori.”

“Oh,” she said and shrugged. “No matter, I’m sure the poor man must have been devastated.”

“I was impressed by your induction process,” Vera said as a growing silence filled the office. Silence was all she’d craved over the last few days but now it made her uncomfortable.

Miss Ferguson smiled and returned to her side of the desk. ”Yes, I suppose it’s a little like a busman’s holiday for you, isn’t it? I don’t know how it was in Wentworth but you’ll find that I run a tight ship here, Bennett. I hope that I can rely on you to help keep us on an even keel?” She unfastened the bottom button of her jacket before she sat down, crossing her legs as she leaned back and fixed Vera with an expectant look.

“Sorry?”

“When I took over as Governor here, every other inmate was addicted to drugs. Now there are no drugs in this prison and that’s the way I intend it to stay.”

“But drugs in in prisons are inevitable. Just look at who we keep in them.”

The Governor’s voice took on an edge and Vera flinched inwardly. “No, Bennett, they are not ‘inevitable’, if your security measures are sufficiently robust then there is no reason why any contraband should find its way inside. You of all people should know that, hm?”

So that was it, that’s what Miss Ferguson was after, it was obvious really. The glow of resentment made Vera's skin prickle. “You want me to lag,” she stated flatly. “The women will lynch me, you know that.”

Miss Ferguson's tone softened again. “You’ll be perfectly safe, Bennett. I’m not interested in acquiring another informer – you might know that I already have plenty of reliable sources reporting on the usual range of topics – no, what I want is someone with a strategic eye, someone who can gauge the mood, shift consensus with a well-placed word, that sort of thing. A woman of your experience,” she paused and inclined her head in acknowledgement of Vera's former status. “You’ll have no problem doing that for me, will you?”

Oh, no, no problem at all! She wanted to ask the question of what would happen if she said no, if she just kept below the radar until her trial, but she didn’t have the nerve – she knew what would happen if she said no. Vera swallowed hard, already anticipating her own failure even as she accepted. “I, I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “What’s the set-up like down in General? Who do I have to watch out for?”

The Governor smiled warmly. “We have forty-eight women here, all housed in the Annexe, the rest of the prison is given over to male prisoners. The current representative for the women is Jan Richards – tough but biddable. Her weak spot is her husband. She does as she’s told or she loses contact rights but that won’t stop her killing you if she finds out who you really are.” Her words hung over her desk like poisonous fog and Vera grimaced. “Have you decided on a cover story yet?”

“Um, I think that I should stick as close to the truth as possible…” She swallowed hard once more as the memory of being charged flashed behind her eyes, and took a deep breath. “I’m going to say that I’m a librarian.” The Governor raised an eyebrow then nodded approvingly as she considered the ruse.” I helped out in the Uni library,” she explained. “So at least I’ll know what I’m talking about.”

“Very well. Now, Greenway will try it on with you. She’s a stand-over merchant but she doesn’t like pain so my advice is that when she starts on you, you put her down fast. You should be able to do that well enough with the self-defence training you’ve received, yes?”

Vera nodded weakly at Miss Ferguson's misplaced confidence in her abilities, knowing perfectly well that she wouldn’t have the guts.


	4. The Good Idea

“Wake up, Bennett.” Torchlight dazzled her and she tensed as her arm was seized in the tight grip of Officer Davis. “Come on, Guv’nah wants to see you,” she said. 

She tried to cover her naked breasts as she was pulled from her bed. “I can’t go like this!” she squawked.

“Should know not to sleep in the nuddy in a place like this, Bennett,” chuckled Davis. “Gives out the wrong impression, if you know what I mean,” she added with a lecherous wink. She swept the torch beam across the cell and nodded to Vera's robe. “Put that on and don’t waste my time.”

It was made from thin polyester spun to look like bridal satin, and the static electricity it created made her feel like a human Van der Graaf generator. It had been part of the ‘New Prisoner care package’ arranged by the Salvos, no doubt donated by a store that could only give them away they were so awful. But it was all she had and gingerly, she picked it up and slipped into its crackling embrace.

The clock said 10:20 but it felt more like 3 in the morning, and Vera scrubbed the sleep from her eyes, feeling her hair reach out and attach itself to her sleeve as she did so. “Where are we going?” she asked as they left the pod – six ‘bedrooms’ clustered around a cramped central area. This layout had been considered cutting edge when Stone Park had been built but it was almost pre-historic in comparison to Wentworth. 

“Guv’nah’s office.”

Nylon carpet tiles in the Admin block scrunched under her bare feet as they made their way to Miss Ferguson, and Vera felt her skin crawl as the static charge built.

“Ah, Vera!” The Governor stared at the prisoner for a fraction longer than was decent. The translucent robe moulded to her tiny frame like gold leaf, the low-grade fabric revealing with startling clarity her dark nipples and the wedge of chestnut between slender thighs. “How have you found your first few days with us?”

“Um, as well as can be expected I suppose.” The Governor nodded to the chairs and she took a seat, jerking her hand away with a yelp as a blue spark of electricity arced from her fingertips to the cool steel tubing. “Static,” she explained apologetically in defence of Miss Ferguson’s odd look.

“Have they accepted you yet?”

“I think so. They’re curious but nice enough, I suppose. But it can get a bit edgy at times. Um,” she looked at the Governor for permission to proceed. It was granted with a small tilt of that sleek head. “I er, I think that some of the women might benefit from a drug treatment programme?” she ventured.

“That’s your professional opinion, is it?” Vera nodded, hoping that she hadn’t overstepped the mark, and she felt herself shrink as Miss Ferguson's eyes flickered coolly over her face. The Governor sat forward, elbows on desk, and steepled her fingers, and Vera was struck by how elegant her hands were – long and pale and perfectly manicured – not like her own raw, bony efforts. “I have to disagree,” she said at length. “It’s a waste of the Department’s money.”

“You could make it peer based,” she persevered. “All you need is for an officer to monitor things. That would cost hardly anything.”

“And is that what you had at Wentworth?”

“Well, no. Will Jackson volunteered to run the group. It made sense given his background.” The Governor raised her eyebrows in query. “He was a social worker,” she clarified. “I really think it helps the women manage their withdrawal.” She felt herself relax a degree as, tilting her head a little, the Governor considered her suggestion, and settled back in her seat again with a thoughtful nod.

“He sounds like he cares a lot about them. Why don’t you tell me more about it over a drink? I’m nearly off shift.” She flashed the friendliest smile Vera had seen in quite a while, and it widened further as, nervously, Vera managed one of her own.


	5. Save Yourself

“Don’t sit, this won’t take long. I notice that you haven’t asked to see a solicitor yet.”

“Why would I?” Vera eyed her file lying open in front of the Governor before meeting her liquid onyx gaze.

“Presumably to arrange your defence, after all, you’ve been here for a month now. I should have imagined that it would be your top priority.”

“Defence? I didn’t do it!”

“The police think that you did, although their evidence appears wholly circumstantial.”

“I can’t tell a solicitor any more than I’ve told them!” she (almost wailed) replied. The truth was the truth, plain and simple. She hadn’t touched a hair on Mum’s head, why couldn’t they see that? Why _wouldn’t_ they see that?

“You’re going to have to,” Miss Ferguson said levelly. “It doesn’t worry you that, if convicted, you risk your sentence being unduly harsh? Because I see two black marks against you already, Vera. One is your occupation, and the other is that this current bunfight surrounding the proposed Euthanasia bill in Victoria has unfairly raised your profile, you can expect a backlash from the media.”

“But I didn’t kill her! I didn’t!” she wailed.

“Then I suggest that you find a brief that can convince a jury of it.”


	6. Looking After Mum

It’s barely dark. She tucks her mother in and kisses her goodnight. Mum’s smiling at her as she backs out of the room and slams the cell door shut. She turns the corner and suddenly finds herself in the park. It’s a bright sunny day and she’s skipping back to the tartan blanket spread on the ground. She and Mum are having a picnic. There’s a small man in a brown suit walking away from them and she tries to follow. It’s her dad. But Mum has hold of her and she can’t break free.

The blankets are tight round her body as Mum tucks her in. She leans In for a rare kiss and Vera twists her face away from the puckering mouth that suddenly opens like a shark’s. Spittle sizzles on her skin like acid and she tries to fight against the constricting sheets but she’s weak, and she’s moaning _‘no’_ as the glistening, fang lined maw engulfs her.


	7. Here Comes Vera Stinky Pants

The officers found the prisoner tied to the security gates. Beaten and half naked, she wore the contents of the dining room bin. Around her feet lay hanks of chestnut curls. The prisoner lifted her face to their judgemental pity and began to cry.

The Governor had visited her in Medical. She had waited for a clean uniform and a towel to be brought in and then ordered all other staff to leave. “So,” she said conversationally as she rested a sculpted buttock on the nurse’s desk. “Do they still think that you’re a downtrodden librarian from Urandangi or was this their way of letting you know they don’t believe you?”

“It wasn’t Jan’s mob,” she sniffed. “They just didn’t like what I’m charged with.” 

Miss Ferguson wrinkled her nose as she drew close. “Oh, Vera. Vera, Vera,” she said with a shake of her head. “Not what I expected from you. You should have taken my advice and knocked Greenway on her arse, as the saying goes.” 

She knew that Miss Ferguson was right and the familiar burn of shame coloured her cheeks. She knew that she thought less of her now. “They’ll leave me alone after this,” she said weakly. She’d seen it before – a lesson given and a lesson learned.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” She sighed as Vera's chin crumpled. “This I what I mean,” she said sharply, indicating Vera's bedraggled state with a flick of her long, expressive fingers. “You present to them as prey, Vera. Of course they’re going to attack you.” Vera hunched over her bruises and stared at the floor as Miss Ferguson eyed her with a mixture of concern and disgust. “Well, what’s done is done I suppose. Come on, you need a shower.”

She hesitated to get undressed in front of Miss Ferguson. The damn woman just wouldn’t look away. “You’re not going to get any cleaner standing there gawping at me, Vera,” she commented as Vera dithered. Woodenly, Vera reached around and unfastened the medical gown they’d put her in. She drew it from her body with a sideways glance at the Governor and quickly unhooked her soiled bra, standing there, holding the cups over her breasts as she watched how the Governor’s lazy gaze coated her from head to toe. “Well, go on then,” said Miss Ferguson, gesturing towards the open stalls, and Vera bit her lip as she stepped out of her underwear.

Children’s voices rang out in her hall of memory. “Here comes Vera Stinky Pants! Here comes Vera Stinky Pants!” She burned with humiliation. That taunt had continued to haunt her even after she left school; it was a nasty little memory that her mum would trot out whenever she was feeling particularly sorry for herself – just to enjoy the misery it produced in her daughter. Tears came, forcing themselves out from beneath tightly closed lids as she rubbed shampoo into her vandalised hair. It felt as if she was half-bald and she cried all the harder at the indignity of it all. The weight of the water bowed her head, hunched her shoulders, beat her down until she was crouched, bared teeth digging into her knee as she let it all out in ragged, tortured sobs. All of it. All of her fear and misery and self-pity, her grief and her anger; and she hated herself for being so weak. No-one worth their salt would have found themselves in this situation, no-one of any worth would have let the Police railroad them the way she had. She was useless; friendless and, and… And just so fucking pathetic!

The Governor was jacketless, sleeves rolled to the elbow as she pulled Vera out of the cubicle and wrapped her in a rough, hard towel. And Vera allowed herself to be held like a small child as Miss Ferguson rubbed her dry. But she most certainly didn’t feel like a small child as a large hand slowly worked its way over her bum, or when it moved lazily to her breasts. She was totally touch starved and her body cried out in strange and shocking ways as the Governor created a bright tingle across her skin. The scrape of the towel up the inside of her damp thigh had her quivering, and when firm pressure was applied to her sex, she raised her face to Miss Ferguson's and their eyes locked. The sensation that burned through her was like nothing she’d ever experienced before, her sex tightened in Miss Ferguson's hand, throbbing and pulsing as her nipples stiffened to hard little peaks, and she couldn’t breathe for the hollow feeling that made her belly quake. Instinctively, she offered up her lips to Miss Ferguson's as if she might draw the breath from her mouth and she found herself drowning in the intense chocolate warmth of her eyes. She swore that their lips brushed before the Governor slowly straightened up, her knowing hands sliding to Vera's shoulders as she gently cloaked her in the towel.

Long fingers ruffled the ragged tufts that curled damply above her ear. “Now then, let’s get this hair of yours seen to, yes?” She couldn’t tell if the faint smile on the Governor’s lips was one of reassurance or amusement, or pity; and to save herself from further embarrassment she broke Miss Ferguson’s dark stare, and her eyes found the floor as she nodded dumbly.


	8. Painful Truth

Chatter in the Laundry faded away as Vera took her station at the folding table. “Are you like the Guvna’s pet or sumthin’?” came the sly voice of Jenko from the dryers. Vera looked around to find that Jan’s crew had left their posts and now closed around her in a ring. She looked desperately towards Jan who just shrugged and reached for another sheet.

“What? No! Of course not!” squeaked Vera.

“Ya see a lot her though, don’t’cha?” sneered ‘Mad’ Mo Maguire. “You givin’ her sumthin’ she needs, are ya?” That earned her an applause of evil cackles and she waggled her tongue between the open vee of her first two fingers as Vera denied the incendiary accusation.

“Bet she opens more than her legs for the bitch!” jeered Greenway. “You lagging for her? Is that it?” She’d taxed Vera for her (only) bar of good soap, and Vera had let her, and now she thought that she was the boss of her.

“What do I know that someone else hasn’t already told her?” Some of the women looked at each other in guilty agreement, but not Greenway.

“Well in that case you must be sucking her flaps for her.”

“You’re sick!” Vera muttered and tried to shoulder her way through the circle of bodies.

A fist in the gut, a punch to her kidney, her arm twisted to near breaking.

Through gritted teeth she told the women that for some reason the Governor had instantly hated her; and that because she couldn’t find a charge to put her on over how she wore her uniform, the mean bitch brought in dirty shoes from home and made her clean them. This tale of strange treatment had been Miss Ferguson’s idea, and to maintain the ruse she kept a tin of polish in her locker that Vera would rub into her skin each time before leaving the safety of her office. Some of the women had averted their eyes, others had looked at her with pity – they’d seen the dark smears. They knew about the Governor’s irrational obsession with making the rows of QCS run in parallel. And an unfortunate few also knew about her games.

“Ya want’a watch Ferguson, love,” advised Jan as the women returned to their stations. “She’s a playa.”


	9. Looking After Mum II

The hammering at the door continued to grow in volume as Vera gave a mighty heave and her mother’s body slid off the mattress and into the narrow gap between the bed and the wall. She crouched over her mum, protecting her as figures appeared outside the window, their outlines blurred by the crisp white net curtains that her mother insisted on. She didn’t have much time.

Lowering her head, she sank her teeth deep into the soft, pulpy flesh and ripped a hunk of meat from the pale white arm that had once cradled her, wolfing it down, taking another bite, and then another to the sound of the front door splintering from its hinges.

She guarded her kill, snarling as long arms reached for it, snapping ferociously at strange hands as she stuffed more and more into her mouth, determined to defend what was hers for as long as she could.


	10. Potential

“Up you get, Bennett.” She wasn’t really asleep – it was too hot for that, it gave her bad dreams – and she squinted up at Officer Davis’ voice, throwing off the sheet as she swung her legs out of bed.

“In the raw again, eh, Bennett? Who are you trying to impress?”

“No-one, Miss,” she replied meekly and reached for her robe.

Actually, Vera knew exactly who she was trying to impress. She would never say it out loud but her night-time meetings with the Governor made her feel like a different person. Someone who wasn’t her. This version of herself appeared to have earned the Governor’s tacit respect, and it was something that she treasured above rubies. And for some reason, she also found herself receptive to the way the Governor’s dark eyes floated over her body because it gave her license to do the same. The woman was impressive from start to finish and Vera sometimes felt giddy with admiration at the way she handled herself. It had nothing at all to do with how the Governor had touched her that day in the shower block she told herself…

After the Laundry incident her meetings with Miss Ferguson had moved from their formal seating position either side of the pale wooden desk to the chairs on Vera's side, and then one evening the Governor had suggested the couch that nestled in the corner behind the dividing bookshelf.

Her robe was less aggressive now. In return for a favour (yet to be called in) Jan had run it through the wash a couple of times with some fabric softener turning it into a garment that almost draped as the designer intended. However, every time she sat down she was reminded of the old saying ‘be careful what you wish for’ because now, instead of clinging to every inch of her like an opaque body stocking, it had developed a tendency to gape or slide off her body at will. The old Vera would have been mortified with this current situation, but this improved version of herself seemed far less concerned. For appearances sake she had been attempting to preserve her modesty when the Governor had wondered out loud if Will Jackson might not try to fill his late wife’s shoes.

“I doubt it,” she’d replied as Miss Ferguson disappeared into the kitchenette to refresh their now customary drinks. “Having to lay down the law would ruin his image. He’s always been a bit up himself. He likes to play the good guy but actually he can be a bit of an arse.” She realised that this was the first time she’d put her thoughts into words – but it was true so why shouldn’t she say it? It wasn’t as if Will had ever defended her…

“With whom is he an arse, Vera? You?”

“No. Well, yes. If I think about it, since Meg died, there’s been times when he’s been downright nasty.” She startled a little as Miss Ferguson appeared at her side and handed her her drink.

“Do you think he wanted your job?” she asked, unbuttoning her jacket as she sat down at the far end of the couch, angling her body towards Vera as she crossed her long legs. She glanced at her office door through the open shelves and then Vera felt her eyes skim over her as she sat there mulling over the question.

“Perhaps. I sometimes think that Meg would have preferred it,” she opined after moment or two.

“You’ve been the Deputy Governor there for almost five years, yes?” Vera nodded. “And how many governors have come in and taken what should have been yours?”

Vera pushed her new asymmetric bob behind her ear and looked down at her lap. “I wish the Department saw it that way,” she said quietly. But she knew that there was a damn good reason why they didn’t: she wasn’t Governor material. She just didn’t have it in her – however many times she may complain and insist that she did, if only she was allowed to prove it – she knew that deep down, she didn’t have the wit or the steel needed for the job.

“Sorry?” asked Miss Ferguson, cocking her ear.

“Twice. I’ve applied twice and both times someone else got the job.” She took a long swallow of scotch and coughed as it seared her throat.

“That must have been frustrating for you, when you obviously have so much potential. I wish that you’d been my deputy, we could have achieved great things, you and me.”

The Governor looked sincere as she toasted this fantasy team of theirs, and her eyes, mellowed by the whiskey, seemed to convey to Vera a sense of kinship; Jan’s warning came back to her and Vera was instantly on her guard. “Why are you being so nice to me, Governor?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

She returned Miss Ferguson's squint. “You talk to me like I’m a human being. It’s not usual for a prisoner and a Governor to meet like this, not even the Top Dog. You know that. Why?”

The Governor raised a placatory hand. “Vera, I know what you’re trying to say, but I’m not grooming you for anything untoward. Let’s face it, you're not a usual prisoner, are you?” she asked, gesturing towards Vera. “I’d say that you are a most unusual prisoner.” The Governor’s dark eyes creased reassuringly as a nervous smile flickered uncertainly on Vera's bee stung lips. “And, as the burden of proof currently lies with the Police, you are technically innocent of any charge laid against you. I find you pleasant company and, but for your current circumstances, this might be an end of shift debrief between two like-minded colleagues – it’s not such a stretch of the imagination to see it in that light, is it?”

Vera couldn’t speak. She could only blink as tears of gratitude threatened to moisten her eyes.


	11. Look At Me Now

It was Mum’s birthday and she woke up feeling more depressed than usual. Miss Ferguson must have known because she’d ordered her to see the psychologist before lunch, and now she’d summoned her to her office for another after hours chat. She really hadn’t wanted to go. 

The scotch burned in her belly and she was drunk. Maudlin.

_Why are you wearing that?_ It had been that pretty blouse with the pastel swallows, the one she hadn’t worn since the day she’d bought it.

_Erm... just catching up with some work mates for a drink._

_Tonight?_ A simple question but loaded like a cannon.

_Yeah, I won't be late._

_But you've got work tomorrow._

_Yeah, it's just a drink._

_What about me?_

She’d gritted her teeth and tried to keep it light. _It's just a drink._

_I think I'm coming down with something. I've got such a sore throat and my head's aching._

_I made you chicken cacciatore - your favourite._ Perhaps she’d thought that by filling the old girl to bursting point she’d nod off in front of the news.

_Please don't go out tonight. Don't leave me._

_Mum, please!_

_Tell your friends I'm not feeling well and I need you to stay home._ She’d been bloody well enough before she’d seen the blouse!

_I never go out. Every time they ask me, I say no._

_If they're real friends, they'll understand._

_No, they'll stop asking._

_Nothing wrong with staying home, looking after your mother._ She’s missed off a sly ‘ _occasionally’,_ she’d thought savagely, and realised that she’d reached her tipping point.

 _That's all I ever do! I have no life. I have no friends. I have nothing. Nothing except for this, this... house and you!_ There! it was out! She’d said it…

_I'm sorry you're so unhappy!_

_No, I'm... I'm not unhap- I am, I... I am unhappy._

_And it's my fault._

_No, it's not, it's my fault for never saying what I want and for staying here and doing nothing and turning into you_. She’d finally come out of the closet as an adult and she had no idea what to do next. And then she had caught her mother’s face, full of shock and hurt and she’d said those fatal words: _You know, I can go out another time. It doesn't have to be tonight_.

But it did have to be that night! Because if she hadn’t gone then then she probably would have never ventured out ever again and she’d have rotted away – only leaving her mother’s side to moulder away in a job that was going nowhere. All she’d bloody wanted was one night out like a normal person, it wasn’t so much to ask for was it? Just one night away from her mother, away from the TV. Away from herself.

Thirty-eight years old and she finally found the courage to describe the corner she’d backed herself into. Fucking pitiful! She should have just left home years ago. She could have done it at any time but the fact was – and she hated herself for her timidity – she’d been scared of being on her own. Just being in the house alone had unnerved her. And the war that it would have created between her and her mother was simply unthinkable – she knew that Mum would have made her life a total misery with her emotional blackmail and her venomous jibes; the silences would have been even worse than her acrid phone calls. Whatever she did, there would have been no escape.

Vera's face crumpled and she folded in on herself as the truth came knocking. “I did it,” she said in a small voice. The sofa sagged as the Governor sat down beside her and she looked up at Miss Ferguson and blew out a trembling breath. “Oh, god…. I, I did it.”

There was a moment’s silence then Miss Ferguson quietly advised, “You need to forget what you’ve just said.” Stunned, Vera stared up at her in disbelief. “You want to be found not guilty, don’t you?” asked the Governor gently and, after a very brief inner war, Vera nodded. Was Miss Ferguson really going to ignore her confession?

“How am I going to live with what I did?” she croaked.

“You will, Vera.”

“How do you know? How could you possibly know something like that?”

Warmth enveloped her fingers and she glanced down at her hands wrapped in the Governor’s. And with that simple gesture hot tears filled her eyes and quickly forged glistening paths down her pale face. The Governor drew closer and Vera melted into her chest as strong arms wrapped themselves around her, steady hands stroking her shuddering back, cradling her waist; and she let herself be soothed by the soft, comforting sounds slipping into her ear. “I do, Vera,” whispered Miss Ferguson.” I know because I did something frighteningly similar when I was half your age. But look at me now, no guilt, no regrets – just everything I want and deserve. Women like us often have a dark chapter or two in our stories, but it is how we write our own narrative that dictates who we are, not some fact that can’t be undone. So, take heed and choose your words wisely, Vera.”

Her heart beat in her throat. Had Miss Ferguson just confessed to a murder of her own? Was she going to lie for her? What was going on?

Vera raised her hand to scrub at her tears and her troublesome robe chose the exact moment to slip its knot and slither open, and she felt Miss Ferguson's chest hitch as it flowed from the peak of her small breast and exposed the compact curve of her hip and thigh; and as the Governor’s hands stilled, Vera felt the same tingle flow over her like in the shower block, the same tightening, and she lifted her face, tear-stained lips grazing the stiff tan collar as she brought her mouth to Miss Ferguson's and kissed her. The Governor fingers twitched and her dark eyes burned into Vera's as she peeled her crimson lips away, and Vera stared up at her in desperation. She remained immobile as Vera kissed her again, clutching at her jacket as she twisted into her lap.


	12. Count Yourself Lucky

They were tipsy. Their knees almost touching. Miss Ferguson had just unbuttoned her jacket and Vera was busy adjusting her robe after the sash had slithered undone yet again. “Tell me about this Derek Channing, Vera.”

She pulled a face and shuddered theatrically. The Governor laughed. “Oh, I see, he’s that likeable!”

“He’s a total sleaze. I don’t know how Meg and Erica ever put up with him!”

“Politics,” the Governor answered. “Gotta play the game if you want to get anywhere in the Service.” She took a sip of her drink and stretched her arm out along the back of the sofa.

Vera held her breath in anticipation of her touch and sagged a little when it didn’t happen. It was almost as if the Governor was teasing her. She had let herself be kissed last night – admittedly not for long before she’d lifted Vera from her lap and gently set her aside – but it had happened. She’d expected Miss Ferguson to demand an explanation for her impropriety, although she didn’t know if she’d have had the words to explain to her when she didn’t understand why herself. She’d expected the Governor to demand an apology at the very least; but she hadn’t and Vera had been left feeling more than a little absurd.

“So, tell me more about Mr. Wonderful.” The Governor smiled at her and winked conspiratorially, and she was only too pleased to divulge a slew of waspish gossip. Her tongue, loosened by the forbidden liquor, peeked out between her teeth as she grinned back.

“He’s pure management,” she said scornfully. “Never walked a landing in his life. Got promoted to GM last year and has made our lives a misery ever since with his ‘do this’ and his ‘do that’ and his smarm.” She took another sip of whiskey and grimaced. “Hated Meg. Thinks Erica’s a joke…”

“A woman hater, eh?”

“Only if they don’t come across. He tries it on with all the pretty or the powerful ones.”

The Governor seemed to roll this around in her mind as her bright eyes flickered over Vera in her skimpy dressing gown. “Has he tried it on with you?” she asked.

Vera coloured in embarrassment. “No.”

“Sounds like you should count yourself lucky. He can probably see what you think of him.”

“He wouldn’t know, he doesn’t even notice I’m there. I’m just a lackey to him.”

“Well that’s his loss if he doesn’t see what I do.”

Alone in her cell she thought about Miss Ferguson's ambiguous comment. She wondered what she really meant by it; was she referring to her professional abilities or… or to her attractiveness as a, a, a sexual partner? Fuck! What was it that made her think things like that? Why was she even thinking about Miss Ferguson in that way? What the fuck was going on? Was she having some sort of breakdown now that the truth was out? A breakdown that was turning her gay? Or could it be that now she wasn’t crushed by her mother, or having to perform for everybody else, could it be that this was who she really was? Had all it taken was for her to commit murder to – what was it they called it – to find herself? Oh yeah, just great, she thought peevishly, now she had something else to worry about!


	13. Right Way, Wrong Way, Right Way

The maze is endless. Dense packed briars knit together behind her as she lurches ever forward, doomed to blindly pick left or right, unable to choose between them as she spins around and finds herself in a new (yet identical) section. Lost, she panics and stumbles on. Finding a dead end she tuns to retrace her steps and finds a wall of dressed sandstone. A column stretching into the white sky. Regularly spaced stones helix the tower. She has to climb it. There’s no fear as she pushes herself up, reaching for step after step, rising higher and higher until she sees. Sees the barren centre of the maze, arid and broken, see the wasteland beyond the thorny borders; sees too how the stones that offered themselves to her going up have crumbled away, how there are no more above her, and she teeters, throat tight with terror, trapped on her lonely spur of rock.

The dark-haired woman stands at the foot of the tower, hands raised towards her, silently pleading for Vera to come down and join her. And suddenly the distance isn’t that far, and she takes the step and floats the few short metres down into waiting arms. Safe arms. She lets herself be led to a house and up steep and narrow stairs. She lets herself be led though rooms you step up into, rooms you step down into; rich rooms of colours and fabrics, dusty rooms with bare lath and wooden boards.

The woman smiles and laughs and twirls around in her diaphanous gown, a draught painting her in gossamer as she spins and holds out her hands to Vera. Her heavy breasts sway, the hollow of her navel and the gentle swell of her belly rippling as she dances. Vera wants to trail her fingertips over the sculpted precision of the woman’s body. She burns with desire as the whisper-like gown flutters against the dark furrow between long, ghostlike thighs. She takes a step and the woman is gone, melted into the heavy overcoats that suddenly line the flaking limewashed walls.

She knows that she must follow or she’ll be damned and she pushes through the coats – as if she’s entering Narnia – and tumbles into a spiral staircase lined with furs. Claustrophobia claims her. She can’t breathe; she’s suffocating as the slippery pelts crowd in on her but their dense mass saves her from falling headlong down the twisting steps. She gives up struggling and allows herself to descend, finally sliding free into an old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen where four old men sit around a plank table eating toast and sipping tea from enamel mugs.

She half-wakes. Tangled in her sheet, twisted cloth pressing between her legs; the image that fills her mind is Joan Ferguson's handsome face, and Vera moans as a tightness grips her very core and she pushes against the rope of coarse bedding as exquisite heat explodes in a billowing ache.


	14. The Million Dollar Question

There was no whiskey tonight. Instead, tea was on the menu and Miss Ferguson made a show of carrying everything in on a shiny silver tray and allowing the leaves to steep for five minutes before lifting the sleek pot and pouring the deep golden liquid into a fine china mug. For some reason she looked particularly attractive to Vera tonight. There was something in the gleam of her watchful eyes, in the faint smile that lingered on her vermillion lips, in the way she tilted her elegant head as she looked at her; Vera couldn’t pin it down to just one thing but she felt herself warm as Miss Ferguson leaned against the bookshelf and bathed her in that silky look she sometimes used.

“I’m curious, Vera. When you remembered…” she twirled her fingers in the air to symbolise Vera's crime.

“Killing Mum?” she supplied dully.

“Yes, that. Tell me, did it come to you gradually or was it one big revelation?”

Bound together as they were by dirty secrets, it was a relief for Vera to be able to process what had happened, but that didn’t stop her from feeling the pain of that night, or any of the other slights leading up to it. She looked up into Miss Ferguson's face and took a sip of hot tea as the Governor shrugged out of her jacket, noting how her tan shirt stretched tightly across her breasts as she did so, and Vera hesitated as (despite the grim subject matter) the now familiar tingly buzz burst into life low down in her belly. It felt wrong to feel like this given the topic, and she looked away ashamed of herself.

Hunching over her steaming mug, she took a deep breath and began. “I, well, I sort of had this feeling that something wasn’t quite right? Like something wasn’t adding up, you know?” she blew gently on her tea and returned her eyes to the Governor’s. “I, I’ve been having these dreams you see. Doctor Weissman says that it’s not my dreams themselves, it’s how I respond to them that’s more important…” Her lips pulled tight and she took a wavering breath. “But they scare me.” With a small smile of sympathy, the Governor slipped the knot on her tie and loosened the top buttons of her ugly shirt, and Vera swallowed as she glimpsed the pale hollow of her throat. “I felt so rotten that night – well, you saw for yourself – and that feeling just wouldn’t go away and then… And then I knew it was me… And then, well, I just remembered. Ohhh!” She shuddered as she felt the cushion in her hands, and bowed her head. 

The Governor was silent for a long moment. “What makes you so sure that the memory is true? I mean,” she said, undoing her cuffs and slowly rolling her sleeves to her elbows, “You’ve been under a lot of pressure from the Police to admit to it – might it not be a false memory?” Vera looked up sharply and held the Governor’s gaze as she tried to work out what the woman was trying to get at. Was she supplying her with a safety net in case the truth of her confession ever found its way out of this office? Her eyes slipped to Miss Ferguson's mouth and then to the buttons holding her shirt closed over her breasts, and she looked up again with a sad shake of her head.

“No. It’s not false. I wish that it was, but it’s not.” She blinked against the ache and sting of tears.

“Is it something you can tell me about, Vera?”

She gave a heavy sigh and looked down into her mug. “I might need something a bit stronger than tea.”

“Oh, the cupboard is bare I’m afraid, but I might be able to rustle up a biscuit or two if you like? How about that?” Shrugging as Vera shook her head, Miss Ferguson pushed herself away from the bookcase and crossed to the sofa.

“So,” she said, stepping out of her tan court shoes, “Do you want to tell me what started it all off?” If she noticed how Vera looked her over with an appreciative flicker of her big blue eyes then she didn’t let on, and she lowered herself down beside her, drawing a long leg beneath her so that they were half facing each other.

“My mother had what they call ‘a strong personality’,” said Vera with a twitch of her head, her grimace indicated that that wasn’t the term she’d have used but was being polite. The Governor's lips parted in a silent ‘ah’ and she nodded for Vera to continue. “I think she only had me because it what was expected of her at the time. Maybe it would have been different if Dad hadn’t left us but he did. When I was six. She said that it was my fault that he’d gone.” The Governor’s eyes narrowed. “I know that it isn’t true now, but back then she really made me believe that it was. That woman broke me,” she acknowledged bitterly.

“You were a child, Vera. She was the adult.”

“But I let her keep on doing it,” she replied forlornly. She threw her head back and closed her eyes with ‘tcha’ of self-disgust. “I allowed her to do it to me all my life! I let her dictate everything I did. I have more freedom in here that I did at home. Do you know that? I mean, how sad is that?”

“So what was different that night? What made you decide to put a stop to it?”

Rolling her head to face her, Vera pulled a face as she thought about the Governor’s question. “Nothing really,” she said at last. “I was just sick of making up excuses. There was always some social night or other planned at work and I, well I just got tired of inventing reasons for why I couldn’t go.” She willed Miss Ferguson to understand – although how a woman like that would ever know what it was like to be weak and spineless was anyone’s guess – and a little smile of gratitude played on her lips at the sympathy she found in the other woman’s gentle face. “All I wanted was to spend some time with people of my own age. Just to have a bit of fun for once. It’s not much to ask, is it?”

“There must have been something else though? I mean, you must have felt like that before? What changed?” She twisted to face Vera and, as her arm slid along the sofa back, Vera found herself momentarily distracted by the way her left breast was lifted and squashed. 

“She was so blatant. When she realised that I was going out, I mean. All of a sudden she was so ill that she couldn’t possibly be left on her own for a few hours. She tried to guilt trip me like she always did and, and…”

“And what, Vera?” Long, manicured fingers stroked her shoulder.

“And I told her. I finally told her how unhappy I was.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a woosh as she leaned forward and set her mug on the table. She turned to the Governor and felt a manic smile tighten her cheeks as she said, “And of course, then I felt guilty about it and told her that it didn’t have to be that night and that I wouldn’t go.” Self-derision made her voice shrill and she broke off, breathing heavily as she focused on Miss Ferguson's hand resting on her trousered thigh.

“Did that make you angry?”

“At who?”

The Governor shrugged. “Does it matter? Anger is anger. It all needs an outlet.”

“Yes. I was angry. I knew that she wasn’t ill, so I thought bugger it! I was going to go out and show her that she couldn’t bully me anymore.”

“Then why kill her?”

Vera opened her mouth to reply and abruptly shut it again. That was the million dollar question. If only she had a million dollar answer to go with it! “I, I remember going into her room and she was asleep. One of the scatter cushions was on the floor so I picked it up. And I remember looking at her and thinking to myself that I never wanted to become what she was.”

“Sounds as if you were finally seeing clearly. So why didn’t you just pack a bag and get out?”

“Because she woke up. And she looked at me. And, and…” She remembered how her new-found intent had wavered, and she fixed her eyes on her mug as she recounted the events of those fateful few minutes. “Everything just became very clear. If I didn’t have her in my life then I would actually have a life. No-one would have to know. She was always at the doctors. They’d just think that she died in her sleep or something.”

“I put the cushion over her face and I pressed down until she stopped moving. I closed her eyes and made her comfortable, and then put a new cover on the cushion.”

“And you really couldn’t remember doing it?”

Vera glanced at the Governor. “Well, no. I mean, there’d been other times when she’d behaved so badly that I wanted to kill her, you know? It was like one of those; I mean, it’s not as if I ever did anything about those feelings other than bottle them up, so...” she scrubbed her palm over her face and threw her head back with a sigh. “No, I honestly thought that she was sleeping.” She looked at Miss Ferguson expecting to see disbelief but there was none to be found in her mild expression. In fact, she radiated understanding and compassion, and Vera flooded with gratitude. Despite their differences (and not least the fact that she was a prisoner and Miss Ferguson was, well, _the Governor_ ) Vera had come to regard her as a friend (her only friend, if truth be told). But she was more than that, Miss Ferguson was someone to aspire to be. She had presence and bearing, she was charming and thoughtful, shockingly clever but with a strong practical streak; and, of course, she was so bloody good looking. Vera just wanted to hug her and kiss her on the cheek and say thank you, but she didn’t know how.

“I’m curious. What did you do with the cushion cover, Vera? I mean, the Police didn’t find it in the house.”

“I left it in the taxi.”

“Then you must have been aware that something had happened?”

“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t remember thinking much at the time.”

The Governor’s phone beeped in her pocket and she excused herself. Vera watched her long, pale face, transfixed by the points of light dancing in her smiling eyes as she tapped out a reply.

“I’m proud of you, Vera,” said the Governor warmly as she settled down next to her once more. She was closer than before and Vera could feel her body heat radiating out; it raised goosebumps beneath her thin robe. “I think that what you did had to be done, and I’m very impressed at how you are handling it.” There was only sincerity in her eyes and Vera couldn’t help the smile that split her face.

“Oh! You don’t know how much that means to me.” Her smile faltered and she stared into her lap, fiddling with the hem on her robe. “It’s the worst, most selfish thing I’ve ever done but I really don’t know what would have happened to me if I’d let it carry on.”

“You did the right thing.” Vera looked up again, and the smile on Miss Ferguson's face made her want to cry she was so happy; that someone like Miss Ferguson was telling her that she wasn’t a monster meant more than she could say.

The Governor placed her hand just above Vera's knee and her face was suddenly solemn. “Vera, you should know that this will be our last meeting.”

And all of a sudden her world came crashing down. She felt flattened, empty. “Why?” she managed breathlessly. “What’s happened. Has someone found out? Have they reported you?” To lose this oasis of sanity and civility was unthinkable!

The Governor laughed softly at Vera's consternation and squeezed her leg reassuringly. “No, nothing like that. I’m taking some annual leave, that’s all. And by the time I get back, you’ll be gone.”

Vera found no reassurance in her answer, and hot tears blurred the Governor’s face. “But what will I do?” she asked, her voice cracking. “You’re the only one I can talk to! You, you can’t leave me now…”

“You only have two days until your trial, Vera. It’s not long and then it’ll all be over. No more worrying.”

“But… What will I do when you’re gone?”

“I told you, you wait it out until your trial. McKenzie will be replacing me as Acting Governor, she’ll see you right. And perhaps,” she said a little tentatively, fingers twitching against Vera's bare skin, “You might want to look me up when this is all over.”

For the first time since they had met Vera saw uncertainty in Miss Ferguson's eyes – as if this amazing woman really thought that she wouldn’t want to see her again – and, overcome by her emotions, she started to cry in earnest, turning her face from Miss Ferguson in embarrassment.

The Governor reached out and cupped her hot face in her palm, persuading Vera to look at her again. Her thumb brushed away Vera’s tears, and her eyes shone with such concern that Vera turned into Miss Ferguson's touch and kissed her soft palm. And suddenly there was no thought in her head as she opened her robe and guided the Governor’s hand to her breast and watched how the woman’s expression changed from compassion to something much, much darker.

Miss Ferguson's glittering gaze was so intense that it left a blazing trail across Vera's skin, and Vera felt faint. “Is this what you want?” she asked, stroking her wrinkled brown nipple with her thumb. Her sparkling brown eyes were wide, searching Vera's as her touch drew small gasps.

“I want what you want, Joan,” she replied, sliding her leg over the Governor’s lap and straddling her. The robe slithered from her shoulders and she looked down as Miss Ferguson's other hand settled on her bare thigh.

“Joan?” The Governor raised a perfect eyebrow and Vera shivered as lean thighs shifted beneath her. She looked amused at Vera's sultry _yes_ , and half-whispered, “And what is it that I want, hmmm?” Vera bit her lip.

The Governor could only say no; she was plenty used to disappointment, and it wasn’t as if she’d have the embarrassment of having to see her again. What did it matter if she made herself look foolish? Her fingers found the Governor's forearm and she stroked the muscles that rippled beneath silken skin. “I know that you want to touch me the same way that you look at me.” She glanced down as the Governor’s hand slid higher up her leg. “I know that you want to touch what, so far, you’ve only been able to imagine.” She didn’t know where these words were coming from, they couldn’t be hers but they described what she wanted so perfectly that they had to be. She pushed the Governor’s hand between her legs. “Touch me,” she whispered and grazed the Governor’s lips with her own. “Don’t be afraid.”


	15. The Kicker

The Prosecution nodded to the Defence, the Defence nodded back, and together they bowed to the Judge. Now seated in the public gallery, Joan Ferguson stared at the Accused and smirked. The Accused stared at Joan Ferguson, and hatred gleamed in her big blue eyes. Not two hours earlier, Joan Ferguson had been introduced as a last-minute witness. What she’d had to say would condemn her to twenty-five years behind bars, and Vera was feeling wrathful in the biblical sense. Smiting would be too good for a woman like Ferguson, though; she deserved the worst, the most disgustingly painful and humiliating death anyone could ever have. And Vera would have happily dished it out to her.

“Miss Ferguson," the Prosecution had asked, “During your time as Governor of Stone Park Correctional Facility, did the Accused ever admit to killing her mother?” Joan Ferguson had replied that yes, she had.

And had she reported it? she was asked. Certainly, she’d replied, but it was hearsay at best. Which is why the Police had installed a recording device.

“Miss Ferguson,” the Defence had asked, “Is it not true that you coerced the Accused into an admission of guilt in order to secure a promotion to the very prison where she had worked as Deputy Governor? (Vera's jaw had fallen so far that it nearly broke her toes. The bitch was going to _Wentworth?_ ) Certainly not, Joan Ferguson had replied smoothly. Her new position wasn’t a promotion, merely a new opportunity, and one that she had secured prior to that night’s events. The Accused had confessed of her own volition, she had merely encouraged her to explain what had happened.

Why did you meet with her on that night? she was asked; wasn’t that rather irregular? Joan Ferguson had acceded that it was, but it being her mother’s birthday she’d been concerned for Bennett’s mental well-being. The timing of their interview had been beyond her control yet 8pm could hardly be considered excessively late.

And the second meeting, when the Accused elaborated on her alleged crime, that _had_ been at an ‘excessively late’ hour, had it not? Perhaps, she’d replied smoothly, but time had been of the essence in securing the evidence. And the prisoner hadn’t seemed to have minded. She had turned her handsome face towards Vera, and Vera had felt those sure hands on her body once more and burned with shame at how easily she’d been played.

The Prosecution smiled at the witness, the witness smiled back. “And were you surprised by the Accused’s confession, Miss Ferguson?” he asked. Yes, Joan Ferguson had replied, until that point the Accused had been a very convincing liar.

The Accused looked to her Barrister, her Barrister looked to the Judge. “Objection!” he shouted, but it was too late.

All that remained now was for the Judge to hand down his sentence.


End file.
